Dominoes Falling
by wholockerlian
Summary: A man named Travis is trying to get information out of the famous Sherlock Holmes. Depressing story I wrote when I was mad at another cliffhanger.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own anything you recognize, and I'm not getting money. Please review...**

**Warning: depressing. **

When they tore the hood off his face, the great Sherlock Holmes was still unconscious. His eyes were closed and he looked almost peaceful, his head slumped forward as if in a deep sleep. Of course, the various cuts and bruises that were darkening by the minute, the gag in his mouth, and the gun pointing at his head took some of the peacefulness away. He was tied and handcuffed to a metal chair, in a room with four other people, one of whom was carrying a large bucket. The man approached and dumped its contents roughly on him. Sherlock woke up instantly and started to struggle against his restraints.

"Quite enough of that, thank you." One of the other men smiled down at him. He was wearing a dark blue suit and a black tie. _He smokes, _Sherlock noticed automatically. "Too much of that might upset my boys, here, and you wouldn't want that." He smiled sweetly again and removed the gag.

When his captive continued to stare at him without saying a word, he started pacing the room and continued talking. "You see, Mr. Holmes, your brother, the older Mr. Holmes, has passed some fairly interesting information onto you, and we would very much like to hear it." The man frowned, taking in Sherlock's blank face. "It concerns the location of a certain simple piece of technology: a USB drive."

"You really don't want to stay quiet, Mr. Holmes," he added quietly.

Sherlock looked at him, then at the others, fixing them each in turn with his icy stare. Finally turning back to the man in a suit, he said, "How very nice to meet you, Mr. Travis. Needless to say, I wish the circumstances were different." He returned the smile.

"He really is as wonderful as the word goes!" Mr. Travis exclaimed in apparent delight. Suddenly becoming serious, he said, "The location. Now, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock laughed.

"Very well. You! Give him a taste."

He knew they were going to hurt him. He knew that it would be bad. And he couldn't do anything about it. The shortest man came up to him and extended a hand. Sherlock had just enough time to see something metal when-

He wouldn't scream. His body convulsed and jerked in every possible way, but no sound left his mouth.

Then it was over and his head dropped again, only to be pulled back up again by his hair. He could feel the cold steel of the gun now pressed to his neck, but he kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see the man's face. He heard Travis telling someone to go get something and opened his eyes. The short man was still holding the gun to his neck, but that wasn't what made his eyes widen. Another man was slowly wheeling a table covered in instruments towards him.

"I consider myself a very modern man, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Travis' voice came from behind him, "but in some areas I will always follow tradition."

The third man picked up a knife with almost loving care and ran a finger down its blunt side.

"The location." Travis whispered into his ear.

"No." Sherlock breathed, trying with all his might to keep calm.

"As you wish. I knew you would be interesting."

He felt his shirt being removed and closed his eyes again. When he opened them, the man with the knife was standing in front of him.

"Meet Ronald, Mr. Holmes."

This Sherlock Holmes character was entertaining, but also a problem. After several hours of torture, the idiot was still keeping his mouth shut! Travis couldn't understand him. He was obviously in pain… Had Ronald messed up? No, of course not. He'd cut, pulled, twisted, burned, and snapped until what was left of Holmes was either covered in blood or an open wound. Perhaps his stubbornness was due to the fact that he was a psychopath. (Or was it sociopath? Travis had always mixed them up…) Maybe if he found a different pressure point…

Sherlock lifted his head up as Travis entered the room. He let it fall back down and closed his eyes, silently trying and failing to go to his mind palace.

"Well hello, Mr. Holmes. I see that you are awake." Travis came up to him and pulled his head up by his hair, smiling at the murderous expression on what was left of his captive's face. "Are you ready to tell me the location?"

"You are even more of a moron than I'd thought when I first saw you." Sherlock's voice was quiet and strained with pain, but he spoke without hesitation, and even after grunting from the pain of the swift blow, there was no remorse on his face.

"There's no need to be rude, Mr. Holmes. I accept that you have made your choice, but perhaps all you need is a different type of motivation." And with that, Travis made a hand gesture and another man was dragged in.

He was wearing a hood, but even with it on, Sherlock knew immediately who he was. Not because of the sweater, or the jeans, or even Sherlock's deductive powers, but because he simply knew that that man was none other than John Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

As the hood was pulled off, John started to struggle, but then he saw Sherlock. His eyes widened, taking in the cuts, bruises, burns, bulges, and blood everywhere on his friend. Sherlock saw a tear on John's cheek and tried to say something, but his face wouldn't cooperate.

"Mr. Holmes. I'm afraid your friend here will pay the price if you refuse to help s any longer," said Travis as he put a gun to John's head. Sherlock saw John give a tiny shake and turned to look at Travis.

"No." His voice was barely audible, but somehow everyone heard.

Without saying anything, Travis pulled the trigger.

Sherlock saw John collapse, saw the blood trickle out of his wound, saw his friend die. He didn't move. He continued staring at John's body, and didn't say a thing.

They cut, pulled, twisted, burned, and snapped for five more hours. Holmes just sat there. He'd screamed, but his eyes had stayed on the body. Travis was beginning to wonder if they really would have more luck with the other Holmes… He was pacing in an adjoining room when he heard the door burst open, and suddenly there were constables everywhere, handcuffing him and leading him away.

When Sherlock woke up, he had no idea where he was. The first thing he noticed is that he wasn't tied to a chair. The second thing was that his brother was leaning over him. Then his brain kicked in and told him that he was in a hospital, that Mycroft hadn't slept or shaved for three days, that he had recently eaten a sandwich, and that he had recently been talking to Lestrade.

"You're awake." It wasn't a question or an exclamation, merely the statement of a fact, but Sherlock saw his brother's face relax and the hand holding the teacup unclench.

"Quite right." Sherlock smiled.

In Mycroft's opinion his brother looked terrible. He knew he looked terrible too, but he wasn't worried about that at the moment. He should never have given Sherlock the information, but the important thing was to find out how Travis had known that he had it. He was also a little nervous on how his brother would handle his best friend's death.

As soon as Sherlock remembered what had happened, he demanded to be taken to see John's body. Lestrade agreed to take him as soon as he was released, but Sherlock needed to see him now. He knew that there was one person who wouldn't refuse.

Molly blanched when she saw Sherlock Holmes approach her. She knew what was coming and she knew she wouldn't be able to refuse, so she simply nodded and took him down.

John Watson was barely hurt. Apart from the gunshot wound and a lump on his head he looked untouched. His face was relaxed and his eyes closed. Molly turned to look at Sherlock and saw him open the evidence bag and take out his friend's gun.

"Sherlock, you shouldn't have taken that out."

"It was my fault," he appeared not to have heard her. The gun was bringing back so many memories. The time he'd used it to demonstrate the idiocy of the idea that a left-handed man would shoot himself on the left side of his head. The time John had shot the serial killer, perhaps saving Sherlock's life… And this was how he'd re-payed him? It was his fault. "It's my fault," he said, looking at John.

Before Molly could react, Sherlock brought the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly knew that getting help would be useless, knew it with all the certainty of years of medical training, and yet she ran and yelled and screamed and got Lestrade. Then she fainted.

The detective-inspector sat down and ran his hand through his hair. _Of course. What would else would he do?_ He sighed and took out his phone, dialing Mycroft Holmes.

He wearily relayed the news and listened for a response. There was none. He looked at his phone and saw that Mycroft had hung up.

Mycroft poured himself a whiskey. _ Idiot._

SIX MONTHS LATER.

Mrs. Hudson had died a couple weeks earlier. She'd been wasting away, and there was nothing the doctors could've done.

Lestrade comes into work every day including week-ends and drinks large amounts of alcohol every evening (also including week-ends).

Jim from IT brings Molly her anti-depressant pills as she leaves to put flowers on the graves. Almost every evening.

Mycroft quit his work. He has two dogs, S and J. He walks them every day.

As Tom Harper brought his suitcases into his new flat, he frowned at the décor. He'd thought an old lady had lived here! There was a skull on the mantle-piece, an enormous amount of instruments everywhere, books on disgusting subjects… The most ordinary part of the room was an armchair, on which he sat down, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he noticed the spray-painting on the wall and the bullet holes in it. He had a lot of work, he decided, throwing a photograph of a woman into the bin. Everything would have to go.

**There. :) Hope you liked it. Please review.**


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